


Stay With Me

by asilentherald



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Court Sorcerer Merlin, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Magic Revealed, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 02:56:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2213100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asilentherald/pseuds/asilentherald
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Of all the people I imagined I’d outlive, Gwen was never one of them."</p><p>The winds of change blow through Camelot from all directions. Merlin and Arthur are swept up and swept away, only for destiny to find its way back to them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay With Me

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm currently in the middle of a fairly massive Merlin/Arthur fic which I'm hoping to finish (and post) in the next month or so; I'd taken a break from writing to study for/take the MCATs and I needed to write something short to get me back into the swing of things... and this is what happened. I promise I'll write something a little happier/less angsty soon(ish)!
> 
> Also, I listened to "Stay With Me" by Sam Smith far too many times in the last few days. It gave me many an emotion. 
> 
> Enjoy!

He looks like a statue on the shore, water surely seeping into his leather boots, the sand cementing him in place. Merlin feels like a statue, too.

“Of all the people I imagined I’d outlive, Gwen was never one of them,” Arthur murmurs. His voice sounds smooth and steady, but Merlin can hear the tremble and strain leagues beneath the surface.

“Me neither,” Merlin says.

“You’re a servant, Merlin. You’ll outlive us all,” Arthur says derisively. After a moment, he adds, “Though considering the number of times you throw yourself in front of a bandit’s sword, it’s a miracle you’re even still here with all your own limbs.”

Merlin kicks at the water.

“Yep. They’re still there,” he says. It’s a half-hearted attempt, really. The wind picks up and blows the smoke from the flaming boat toward them.

“She insisted on this sort of funeral,” says Arthur. “I haven’t the slightest idea why.”

“Elyan went this way. Lancelot would have. Perhaps it’s her way of feeling close to those she’s lost.”

“And so shall I,” he says softly. Merlin looks sharply at him. “Oh, don’t do that. We’re but mortal men, Merlin. We’ll both die someday.”

“So… If I wanted to be sent off like this, even though I’m not a queen or a knight, would you allow it?” Merlin asks.

“Is that what you want?”

Merlin shrugs. “It’s not a serious question,” he says. “I know I’m just a servant. It wouldn’t be right. People might think you actually liked me.”

Arthur shoves him lightly. Merlin catches a glimpse of a smile as it fades away. The sun drops below the treeline and the air becomes cold. Golden and auburn leaves flutter by on the wind. Merlin crosses his arms.

“Sire,” Leon calls. Both Merlin and Arthur turn around. “The procession is ready to return to Camelot at your command.”

“Go. Leave some supplies. I’ll return in the morning.”

“Sire, that isn’t wise—”

“I need to grieve, Leon, away from prying eyes,” Arthur says, his calm front fraying as his voice thins out. “King I am but I’m also just a man.”

“Certainly, sire. I’ll send word,” Leon says, bowing his head slightly. Merlin waits until his footsteps fade away.

“I’ll go get your supplies, then?”

He’s already backtracking to the sand when Arthur catches his upper arm, his fingers curling around his bicep, squeezing almost curiously. His touch is light, forgiving if Merlin were to pull away, but asking so clearly a question he’s never voiced. Merlin always knows, and Arthur’s silently thankful for it.

But he asks,

“Will you stay with me, Merlin?”

It startles and hurts Merlin chest to hear Arthur ask so desperately.

“Of course.”

His hand falls away, lax with relief. He turns away. Merlin sees his shoulders start to shake and makes for the shore as quickly and loudly as possible.

 

* * *

 

It comes out at dinner one cold winter night. Merlin is refilling the wine pitcher when the words just tumble out – only, they don’t. He’s thought about it quite a lot lately, even if this isn’t quite how he imagined it going.

“I have magic, Arthur.”

After a long while, Arthur snorts and says,

“It bloody figures you do.”

Merlin whips around from where he stands at the far end of the table. He drops into the chair on the end.

“What?”

“Gwen. When… the night she died, she wasn’t thinking clearly. The illness had already won. The things she said didn’t make any sense,” Arthur says.

“I remember,” Merlin says quickly. His heart is still beating faster than a galloping horse.

“She said as much. Told me not to be a prat about it.”

“She knew?” Merlin breathes.

“Apparently so,” Arthur says.

“You didn’t think to mention it?”

“Didn’t think there was anything coherent about it,” he admits. “But it figures it’s true. She kept telling me not to kill you. I couldn’t figure out why I’d ever do that.”

The air between them chills. The length of the dining table in Arthur’s chamber between them seems far too long. Merlin rises, mumbling, and goes to tend to the fire. He kneels on the icy floor. His hands shake as he takes up the poker and shifts the logs around. Soot flies into his face. He sits back, sputtering and coughing, and suddenly he’s shaking and his skin feels cold as the walls and all he wants is _out_ before—

Arthur’s hand, warm as the fire, firm yet somewhat unsteady, grasps his shoulder and turns Merlin around. He looks up at him, burnished in red and gold.

“I cannot repeal the laws yet, Merlin,” he says softly.

“I know.”

“But I promise you I will. When the kingdom is stable again, I plan to reach out to the druids,” Arthur says. He slowly drops to his knees so he and Merlin are on the same level.

“Some still believe in Morgana’s philosophies,” says Merlin.

“But some do not?”

“There is… another they believe in,” Merlin says, looking away. Arthur captures his chin between his thumb and index finger and jerks Merlin’s head toward him. He gives him a withering look. “He is called Emrys.”

“I’ve heard this name before.”

“Morgana hunted him until the day she died.”

“You seem remarkably knowledgeable in these matters,” says Arthur, a wry smile forming on his face. “Perhaps you can teach me, so when we go to the druids I won’t look as stupid as you do most days.”

“Oi! You just said I’m knowledgeable.”

“I said you _seem_ it, just like you _seem_ wise and _seem_ to provide good counsel from time to time,” Arthur says. He pushes off the floor and rises, only to offer Merlin a hand.

“What about the law?” he asks. “I… I can’t ask you to make an exception for me.”

“You don’t have to ask,” Arthur says. Arthur waves his hand impatiently but doesn’t retract it.

“Are you—?”

“ _Yes_ , I’m sure,” Arthur says exasperatedly. “Now are you going to stay there ‘til your knees turn to ice or are we going to finish that wine?”

Merlin takes his hand and lets Arthur lead him back to the warmth of the table, this time sitting close at his right side rather than at the opposite end by the serving station.

Three cups in, Merlin blurts,

“I’ll go if I must, but I’ll never stop protecting you.”

“Shut up, you idiot. You’re not going anywhere.”

He fills Merlin’s cup to the brim, completely ignoring the fact that it’s Merlin’s job and swatting his wobbly hands away. Arthur raises his own cup.

“To staying put,” he says, daring Merlin to say otherwise. His eyes are fierce, bright from the alcohol, like the color in his cheeks, but there’s a warmth and hope there that Merlin can’t attribute to the roaring fire.

“To staying put.”

 

* * *

 

With the spring come the Saxons. Merlin feels like he barely has time to breathe, but he has to do it for both him and Arthur, who’s too busy to put his pants on correctly. Merlin teases him to no end for it; he pretends to take offense but he lets himself laugh in those short moments they have before going down to the war council.

The days have started to turn balmy when Arthur approaches Merlin about seeking out the druids.

“They’re peaceful people. They can’t help us,” says Merlin.

“Some among the Saxons are the druids who fought for Morgana. Perhaps if we get the majority of the druids to agree to a peace with us they can handle the renegades amongst themselves,” he says.

Merlin pauses. He glances out the window into the courtyard where the knights are preparing to depart yet again to deal with Saxons at the border.

“It’s possible. It _might_ work.”

“Excellent!”

“ _Might_ , Arthur! I didn’t say it would!” Merlin shouts after the king, who’s already taken off at a brisk pace with his red cloak fanning out behind him as he turns a corner.

“Do you think it’s worth trying?” he asks, turning around abruptly. Merlin walks right into him, bouncing off his breastplate rather pathetically.

“I suppose,” he manages, “but they firstly look after their kind.”

“As they should.”

“They don’t want trouble, Arthur. You might not be able to convince them.”

“That’s why I’m sending you,” Arthur says with a wide grin.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I am. Who better to speak to the druids than our very own resident sorcerer?”

“Shut up, Arthur!” Merlin hisses. A servant passes by a second later. “Anyone might hear!”

“You worry too much,” he smiles. “You’re safe at my side, Merlin, I promise you that.”

“And yet you’re sending me away?” Merlin says petulantly.

“I trust you. I don’t trust your self-preservation instincts,” he adds, “but you have a curious way of getting things done.”

Merlin only recently told Arthur of some of his exploits over the last eleven years.

“Thanks?”

“Hold your thanks until you return.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!”

Arthur waves him off and sets off for the courtyard to join his knights.

Merlin departs an hour after they do. He wants to make quick work of his meeting with the druids. He packs lightly, sweat clinging to his brow as he saddles his mare.

He packs far too lightly. A week passes before Merlin tracks down a large druid settlement only to find that Iseldir isn’t there. They direct him to an encampment over the sea on an isle that takes him two days to reach by boat. The sea itself takes another week to find.

The druids welcome him and take him directly to meet with Iseldir. Merlin is immediately relieved, his bones aching to go home.

Iseldir, however, is far more cautious than Merlin anticipated he would be. He cites Morgana’s treachery; even though they never agreed to support her, the name Pendragon strikes fear and distrust in their hearts. It’s tangible when Merlin reaches out to them, but he finds it’s not irreparable, not when Arthur has Emrys on his side. By the time Merlin convinces him and the other elders to meet with Arthur for proper peace and reparation talks, Merlin’s face is rough from shaving with their blunt blades and his hair has grown unruly. They ask to brand him with the Mark of Emrys, which Merlin’s never heard of in all his years of study, as a gesture of good faith. He agrees.

The magic burns his skin black and smooth. They carve out a winding, graceful dragon that seems to devour itself, its body a continuous loop.

In return, Iseldir and the elders sign a letter to Arthur promising to meet him in Camelot on the autumnal equinox, and vowing no associations between the druids and the Saxons.

Merlin departs the isle feeling very satisfied with his work.

He encounters no trouble on the road back, even when he comes close to the borders. The knights have done their work. The sight of the white towers of Camelot rising like waves over the trees makes his heart hurt with joy. Only when he’s in the courtyard and handing off his mare to the stablehand does he feel how much he’s missed the place.

He feels it primarily in the almighty shove that comes out of nowhere and knocks him flat on his back.

“Ow,” he gasps. When his vision focuses again and he can hear past the heartbeat in his ears, he finds Arthur standing over him looking utterly furious.

“Where the _hell_ have you been?”

“With the druids! You sent me, you dolt!”

Merlin scrambles to his feet and rights his clothes.

“Three months ago!”

“Er. Has it really been that long?”

“Summer solstice is in a week, Merlin,” he says flatly. “Yes, it’s been that long.”

“Did I miss much?” he asks sheepishly.

Arthur cuffs him on the side of the head and hauls him up the steps.

“You did, in fact. I’ve petitioned to lift the ban on magic,” he says casually. “The council’s voting on it tomorrow morning.”

“What?!”

“Tell me this wasn’t an extended holiday and you actually got something done,” Arthur sighs. Merlin produces Iseldir’s letter and hands it to Arthur. His face brightens a fraction as he reads it. “This is… incredible! Merlin—”

“You can say thanks?”

“Hold that thought. We’ve got to go to the council!”

Arthur drags Merlin through the halls without so much as listening to his complaints that he’s covered in mud and he’s quite hungry in fact.

“I’ll have food sent up to my rooms for us. Now get in there and tell them what you did.”

He pushes Merlin into the council room without so much as an announcement.

“Uh.”

“He’s just returned from the druids,” Arthur says after a tense moment. “I wish to present more evidence for ending the ban.”

The men and women in the room shift uncomfortably in their seats. It is unbearably hot in the council chambers.

Merlin briefly explains what he accomplished in his visit and reads the contents of the letter.

“How did you put forth your good will and faith, boy? They claim it was vital to the agreement,” one man asks, referring to a line in the letter.

“I agreed to let them brand me with a druid symbol, my lord,” says Merlin. The chamber erupts in whispers.

“Show us, then.”

“Show you?” he sputters.

“Just do it, Merlin. You can spare your modesty for this, can’t you?”

Merlin glares at Arthur and removes his jacket and neckerchief. He nearly tears his shirt trying to get it off. He turns so his right side is visible to all those seated at the round table and raises his arm slightly. From his hip to halfway up his rib cage is the intricate dragon. Merlin looses a hair of magic and the dragon starts to twist on his skin.

“It is a highly esteemed mark, one of unending trust,” he says. Arthur pushes his clothes into his arms.

“Right. Thank you, Merlin. Go on now.”

Merlin backs hurriedly out of the chambers, ignoring Leon’s snickering and Gwaine’s leering. He goes to Gaius to change into fresh clothes and greet the old man before heading up to Arthur’s where the promised meal is waiting. He resists for a total of five minutes before digging into the potatoes.

“Have you got any manners? You’re supposed to wait for me,” Arthur says as he bursts through the door. He looks worried, but he’s smiling. Merlin smiles back through a mouthful of potatoes.

“Sorry,” he manages.

“No you’re not,” Arthur laughs.

“Nope. Pork?”

He serves Arthur, using muscles he never used while among the druids.

“If they repeal the ban, I’d like to promote you,” Arthur says suddenly.

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re hardly just a servant now, are you? The council saw that very clearly today,” says Arthur. He pours wine into Merlin’s cup before he can protest. “I’ve kept you my manservant to protect you. Now that I know you can look after yourself, I might give you the position you deserve.”

“It’s the post I want, Arthur,” Merlin protests. “I’m happy to serve you, ‘til the day I die.”

Arthur is temporarily stunned and nearly awed, blinking slowly, his eyes fixed on Merlin like he’s never seen him before. He shakes himself.

“There’s more than one way to serve,” he says. “You could be my advisor. You _are_ , but I can give you that title. Or I could make you Court Sorcerer.”

Merlin drops his fork. Sauce on the pork splatters his face.

“You’re mad,” he says, shaking his head.

“No. I think perhaps I see clearly for the first time,” Arthur says softly. He glances up from his wine, catching Merlin’s eye briefly. He looks away before Arthur can see him blushing like a maiden. “Gwen and I talked about removing the ban a few times but we agreed it wasn’t the right time just yet. We’ve removed the Saxons as a threat, at least for a while. Now is the time to strengthen the kingdom and let it grow, and what better way than this?”

“I still don’t know how she knew about my magic,” Merlin mutters.

“She was more brilliant than either of us, I’m afraid,” Arthur says. He seems to catch the sadness welling up. He drains his cup of wine. “Consider it, Merlin.”

“We don’t know if they’ll repeal the ban.”

“Regardless, it’s what Gwen asked me to do on her deathbed. Will you deny her last wishes?”

“That’s low,” Merlin says, narrowing his eyes at Arthur.

“Yes, and true.”

“I’ll think about it.”

The ban is repealed the next morning, and Arthur announces Merlin as his Court Sorcerer and Advisor. Curiously, no one seems terribly shocked by the revelation, leading Merlin to think that in fact most of Camelot is brighter than him and Arthur. But, given how happy Arthur looks, happier than he’s looked since before Gwen’s death, and how baldly proud he is as he presents Merlin to a courtyard full of people, he can’t bring himself to be bothered by it.

 

* * *

 

The summer passes quietly without a sign of the Saxons in sight. Merlin spends his time educating the council on the ways of the druids and slowly working information on magic into his lessons. He tutors Arthur in private, where he can speak freely and Arthur can ask questions without fear of being judged by his peers for curiosity in a matter illegal until very recently. On the birthday of the late queen, a day before Lammas, there is a festival, as in the old days, and a feast in her honor. The people join in to celebrate Gwen and begin to accept the return of magic.

Arthur makes the required appearances but otherwise locks himself away in his chambers, not even allowing Merlin to come in. Merlin lets him have his space, no matter how stupid it seems to him when he clearly needs some kind of company just as much as he did on the night after Gwen’s funeral. He parks outside Arthur’s door with a book and waits. Arthur mocks him in the morning and hits him when he complains his bum is sore from sitting on the floor all night, but there is something grateful in his smile.

The druids arrive about a month and a half later. Their meetings with Arthur and his council last nearly three weeks, but they are fruitful and give Merlin hope.

He asks for leave from the council meetings one day in early October.

“You’re doing really well, Arthur. I just have a few errands to run,” Merlin assures him. Arthur looks at him strangely, but he allows it.

Gaius is waiting in the courtyard with their horses when Merlin arrives. They ride out to where Balinor is buried and pay their respects before convening with Kilgarrah. Merlin beams at the dragon and launches into all the progress Arthur and Camelot have made since he last saw him just before the battle with Morgana over a year ago.

Merlin’s words slow and falter when the dragon fails to respond.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“The magic of the earth has been disrupted. Something is stirring, something unnatural.”

“What?”

“The witch attempts to rise from the dead. Her servants live on in hiding and they are growing strong enough to raise her. You would do well to hunt them down and end them before they succeed,” Kilgarrah says. He seems to shiver, his scales undulating sharply. Merlin’s own dragon slithers on his side.

“I think I have a better idea,” he murmurs.

Merlin takes off with Gaius trailing in his wake. They ride for half a day before reaching Morgana’s burial site. He can feel magic trembling beneath the surface, struggling to cut through the chains of death. It’s not meant to do this, so Merlin helps the earth along. He digs his hand into the dirt before the grave marker and sends forth powerful magic. The spells trying to reach Morgana shrivel in the presence of his power. Merlin breathes in the heady scent of the earth and releases the magic, allowing it to properly bind Morgana to death.

“You’ve done well, my boy,” Gaius says quietly, pulling Merlin into a hug. His eyes burn for some reason.

“Thanks, Gaius.”

The druids know what happened when Merlin and Gaius return to Camelot the next day. They praise him for his work.

“What of her supporters? They still go free?”

“I have an idea of where they are. I felt their magic when I cast the spell,” he explains. Arthur nods. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m quite tired.”

Merlin makes for his chambers when Iseldir stops him in the hall.

“Beware, Merlin, for these threats cannot be left unchecked for too long,” he says. “They mean death upon you and your king.”

Merlin accepts the warning solemnly and thanks him. The man has not yet failed Merlin in all their interactions, and his words seem right. Merlin goes to his room and begins making plans.

Later that night just before dinner, Arthur arrives without knocking.

“That’s the second time in recent memory you’ve gone off for longer than you said you’d be gone,” he says dropping into the chair next to Merlin’s desk where he’s busy studying maps.

“I was only gone an extra day,” he says.

“I meant more when you ran away to the druids for three months,” he says flatly.

“You never said I had to be back from the druids by a certain day,” he replies, not looking up from the map. He pauses to take notes on a scrap of parchment. “I stayed as long as was necessary to get the job done.”

“I appreciate that,” Arthur murmurs, “but you must understand why I was worried.”

“You were worried?” he asks, finally tearing away from his work.

“They’re like you,” he says, looking out the window at the twilight sky. “I would have understood if you’d chosen to stay with them.”

“Why the hell would I ever do that?”

“I don’t know! The ban hadn’t even been lifted at that point. You could have practiced magic freely there. You weren’t a servant among them. There are a million reasons why—”

“No, Arthur,” Merlin interrupts. He claps his hand over Arthur’s to stop him fidgeting with one of the tiny figurines on Merlin’s desk. “The only place I want to be is at your side. Even if you hadn’t lifted the ban, I’d have stayed with you to the end of our days.”

“I feel like I still don’t understand you some days, even after all these years,” he says softly. “Are there more secrets you’ve yet to tell me?”

“Maybe,” Merlin says, looking away.

“Surely I’ve heard the worst of it by now.”

Merlin told him long ago about poisoning Morgana, freeing Kilgarrah, and accidentally allowing Uther to die, and even longer ago about killing Morgana during the battle last summer. But there are, of course, other secrets, different ones, hidden deep in his heart of hearts.

“Some things I like to keep to myself,” he says, eyes fixed on the corner of the map between him and Arthur.

“Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Pretty sure,” Merlin says, his words barely a puff of air.

“Look at me, Merlin.”

He looks up.

Arthur, most days, is like the sun – bright and vibrant and the center of Merlin’s universe. But there are times when Merlin can’t stand to look at him for fear of what secrets the mere sight of Arthur might arouse. It was easier when Gwen was around, because Arthur was happy with her, and he was happy for them. Without her, Merlin has to work twice as hard to keep himself in check.

Right now, Arthur is absolutely blinding. Merlin tries to back away, find his footing, anchor in _something_ , but Arthur doesn’t allow it, not even for half a second.

He presses his lips to Merlin’s. It’s barely a kiss, really, their mouths brushing lightly and cautiously, with very little movement otherwise. The light from the candles on Merlin’s desk falls away as he shuts his eyes, allowing himself this short, dream-like moment.

It does end. Merlin draws back a fraction, and Arthur almost follows him, only to pull back as well. Arthur’s hair still brushes the side of Merlin’s face. He tries not to give in to the urge to touch it and smooth it away.

“I think,” Arthur says, his voice low and hoarse, “I need a little more time.”

Merlin looks down at his hands, nodding.

“I want to go to the lake in two days time,” he says. He hesitates. “Will you come with me?”

“You don’t have to ask.”

“You’re not my servant anymore. I can’t expect you to follow me everywhere anymore.”

“I am your friend, though. You don’t have to ask,” Merlin says. He breathes deeply, trying to steady what feels like a thousand pieces of his shattered insides floating in his chest. “I’ve still some work to finish tonight.”

“I understand.”

Arthur rises. Merlin turns back to his work. He stops when Arthur kisses the side of his forehead before ducking out the door. The moment he’s gone, Merlin locks the doors with his magic and curls up under the covers on his bed, like any mature twenty-nine-year-old sorcerer. It’s just about the only thing that makes sense in his mind.

 

* * *

 

Just before the start of winter, the Saxons return. It’s a risky move, as the snows have come early and the wind is particularly bitter that year. It’s worrisome when they settle not far from the plains of Camlann, a word Merlin hoped he would never have to hear after Morgana’s death. Two scouts go out and only one returns, his face white as the snow on the ground of the courtyard.

“Mordred leads them, sire. They are preparing to siege the citadel.”

“Then we shall stop them before they even see our city’s walls. Prepare to march. We make our stand at Camlann.”

Merlin leaves upon hearing these words to retch in the nearest chamberpot.

He goes to Gaius. He goes to Kilgarrah. He even goes to Avalon, but no one has answers for him. They all seem to say that the witch’s death changed little of their destinies.

He prepares himself for battle, studying spells and books he hoped he wouldn’t have to crack open again, and avoids Arthur – until the night before they leave on their campaign. The last thing the king should be doing is drinking heavily, but he’s there in the tavern with the rest of the knights and an arm around Merlin to keep him from slinking away. He shoves a tankard of mead into his hands and Merlin decides he has little else to do but join in.

A couple of tankards later, Arthur announces it’s time for everyone to turn in if they don’t want to be sick all over the horses in the morning. Merlin can barely support both Arthur and himself as they wobble up the hill to the castle.

“You know, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur drawls, “you are very pretty. Pretty pretty indeed. Pretty everything, actually.”

Merlin snorts.

“You’re drunk off your arse, my lord.”

“Don’t my lord me,” he grumbles.

“Fine… you are just a drunk arse, then.”

“Fair enough,” Arthur says.

They stop before Arthur’s chambers so Arthur can find his key. He can’t even find his pocket, so Merlin reaches and fishes it out instead, leaving Arthur clinging to him heavily, his hair tickling the side of his face, his hear tucked nicely into his neck. Merlin guides him in with a firm hand on Arthur’s side.

Merlin is about to leave when he catches Arthur struggling with the laces on his shirt.

“Oh, for – stand still.”

He walks over – almost diagonally, but at least he’s not as far gone as Arthur – and helps Arthur out of his shirt. His hands fall automatically to his waist to unlace his trousers, but something feels so very different. Merlin pauses and looks up from his hands at Arthur, who’s watching him with clear, dark eyes, his red lips parted and starting to smile.

“Merlin,” he breathes.

Arthur kisses him without hesitation the moment his name clears his lips. There’s nothing soft or cautious about this kiss – there’s desperation and hunger, but it’s nothing Merlin can’t handle, nothing he can’t match measure for measure.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” he murmurs into Merlin’s mouth.

He tears away Merlin’s coat and neckerchief before fumbling a little with his shirt. Merlin snorts.

“What?” Arthur pauses.

“You’re not nearly as drunk as you pretended to be.”

“Well, I am drunk, but I assure you I want this and I’ve had more than enough time to think about it. That is, unless you—?”

“Shut up, you prat.”

Merlin steps back and removes his shirt, Arthur’s eyes dropping to the undulating dragon on his side. His fingers, feather-light, trace the tattoo, following the motion of the little dragon’s head. Merlin shivers under his touch. Arthur’s hand drops from his side and instead takes Merlin’s own. He leads him to the bed, pausing by its side to kiss Merlin gently and with terrible self-restraint. Merlin smiles and pushes Arthur back. He bounces on the surface of the bed and props himself up on his elbows, watching Merlin as he climbs atop and straddles his hips.

They smile at each other before Merlin bends down and captures Arthur’s mouth. The harsh winter moonlight streaming through the window bathes them sleekly as they move on the bed, ignoring the warmth of the blankets in favor of what they can generate between their bodies. Arthur traces the tattoo with his mouth this time while he works Merlin open, smiling on his hip as Merlin squirms with pleasure. They don’t last long once Arthur is inside; to Merlin, it feels too impossibly good for him to control himself for very long. Arthur spends himself inside him, peppering his neck with kisses, repeating Merlin’s name over and over as Merlin comes digging his heels into Arthur’s thighs and his nails into his back.

When they part, Merlin’s eyes are curiously wet. Arthur brushes a stray tear off his face.

“I ought to go to bed,” Merlin mutters. Arthur looks at him.

“Or you could stay here.”

“I’m exhausted, I don’t think—”

“Me neither. Not now. Stay, if that’s what you want, too,” he says firmly. “I won’t be the one to kick you out.”

Merlin sits up.

“I want to, I really, truly do,” he says, his hands shaking with the pre-battle nervousness the alcohol had barely quelled, “but I think now isn’t the best time to start something like this.”

Arthur’s hand stills where he strokes Merlin’s hip.

“We might die out there. Now’s the best time!”

“No, don’t you see? This will only make things more difficult,” Merlin insists. “Please. This is something I want… more than I care to admit, but I cannot go to Camlann with something like this on my mind. I need to be focused on the work that has to be done.”

“Are you afraid?” Arthur asks.

“Of what might happen? Of course.”

“No, we’re all afraid of that. I meant of _this_.”

Merlin’s posture sags. He shakes his head.

“We can talk about my deep, dark secrets after this is over,” he murmurs.

“Alright. I can wait. Now can we sleep?”

“Yes, okay,” Merlin acquiesces. Merlin pauses, then lies back down, letting Arthur gather him up in his arms. He breathes in his scent and relaxes as sleep readily takes them both.

 

* * *

 

The heat of Merlin’s magic and the lightning bolt that splits Mordred in two fades away. When the smoke and light clears, he finally sees him after screaming himself hoarse calling Arthur’s name. He clutches his chest, blood blooming through the spaces between his fingers as he catches sight of Merlin sprinting towards him, hopping over fallen warriors, of Camelot and Saxon alike.

“Merlin,” he smiles. “Good of you to join me.”

He falls to his knees. Merlin falls with him clutching Arthur’s face.

“No. This can’t be—”

“All men die, Merlin. Seems like today’s my day.”

“You can’t! I – I thought I was in time. I thought I’d defied the prophecies.”

Emotions stopper his throat. Merlin gasps for breath as he struggles to keep from crying and to hold Arthur’s weight. He gets heavier in his arms by the second. Excalibur slips from his grip and falls with an almighty clatter on the shield beside them.

“Let me try and heal you.”

“It’s too late, Merlin. It’s too late.”

“It’s not! The blow’s only just been dealt. I can call Kilgarrah, get him to take us to Avalon. We have time! We could have all the time in the world if you – Arthur, please. Stay with me. Just this once, I’m the one asking you.”

Arthur smiles, his lips red with blood. He reaches up and touches the side of Merlin’s face, caressing him.

“Even with all your magic, Merlin… some things can’t be undone.”

“I’m Emrys, Arthur. If anyone can do it, it’s me,” he says. He looks up and around, but the plain is barren but for them and the dead. He reaches out, searching for druids nearby, but Merlin’s concentration slips when Arthur cries out and falls from his arms to the ground.

“I’m not going to let you die,” Merlin says. “Look at me. Hey. Please, just look.”

Arthur opens his eyes. His skin isn’t golden anymore – it’s ashen and turning grayer by the second.

“Thank you. For everything,” he murmurs. “I – there’s something else I want to say.”

“I know,” Merlin says. He’s crying now, even though he’s the one who has to stay calm and find a solution. “Don’t say anything yet.”

“I love you,” he says anyway. Merlin looks down at Arthur, who smiles at him like _he’s_ the sun. “I had to say it once.”

“This isn’t the way I imagined things going,” Merlin says with a watery laugh.

“Me neither,” Arthur agrees, “but it seems we’ve been cut short.”

“I love you, too, you know. You giant prat.”

Arthur really smiles at that. He tugs Merlin down and kisses his lips, Arthur’s mouth dry and simultaneously wet with blood. Merlin shuts his eyes and rests his forehead against Arthur’s until the breathing on his cheek ceases.

 

* * *

 

Gwaine is the one who pulls Merlin away from the shore where he seems to have cemented himself to the sand, watching Arthur’s boat float away. They don’t light his pyre at Merlin’s insistence.

“He’ll be back. The prophecies have been right so far, and they say he’ll be back.”

He told them over and over until they gave in.

But when Arthur finally does sail away with the isle at the center of the lake of Avalon shrouded in a mist that swallows his boat whole, Merlin can’t bring himself to leave.

“Come on, Merlin,” Gwaine says.

“I can’t go yet.”

“He’s not coming back so quickly. He’s got to heal, right?”

Merlin nods.

“That’ll take some time. ‘Sides, you’ve got to heal, too.”

He stands for another hour. Gwaine doesn’t budge. He waits at his side patiently until it’s too foggy for them to see the isle at all.

“I’ll carry you back if I have to,” he warns.

“I’ll go,” Merlin says. His voice sounds like a wooden lute hitting the ground and making a sad, hollow sound on impact. “But I’ll come back soon. I won’t leave him alone here.”

He’s speaking more to the isle than to Gwaine, but Gwaine seems to understand.

“We’ll help you settle in. All of us.”

Merlin turns to Gwaine, who’s halfway to the horses. He smiles and tosses an apple at Merlin. He stops it in midair and lets it float to him.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Maybe I’ll even build myself a house up the hill somewhere.”

Merlin laughs at that.

“What’ll you do out here? There isn’t a tavern for miles!”

“Maybe I’ll open a tavern, and you can regale the weary travelers with stories of the great King Arthur and his most handsome knight Gwaine,” he says, “and a man he trusted with his life and loved with all his heart.”

Merlin drops his gaze. He puts the apple in his pocket.

“It never got to be like that,” he says. “We didn’t get the chance.”

“It was. Maybe you two were too blind to see it, but it was,” Gwaine assures him. “Just like your magic. The whole of Camelot knew about it ages before Arthur named you Court Sorcerer.”

They mount their horses. Every fiber of Merlin’s being begs not to be taken away from Avalon, but he knows he must go. Arthur will still be there in a week or so, but Merlin might turn to dust if he doesn’t sleep or eat soon.

“He hasn’t left you or any of us, Merlin,” Gwaine says quietly. “If there’s anything I’ve learned is that there’s more than one way to live in this world. Being alive is just one of them.”

“Good thing we’re all mortal men, then,” he says. He can hear his voice echoing sadly in the copse as they cross it. Gwaine must hear the desperate hope in his voice, that eventually he’ll be with Arthur, even though Arthur’s the one destined to return, not Merlin. He gives Gwaine a look, daring him to say _something_ , to challenge this sliver of hope, but all he says is,

“Good thing at that.”

And so they ride on.


End file.
